Waste away
by Your-hollywood-tragedyx3
Summary: I feel awkward and uncomfortable. I'm itching to get out of this skin. Someone please come save me.' Alex is back, with a big secret. R&R.
1. One

**A/N: I've been terribly and undeniably inspired by the book I'm reading now called; 'Wasted.' It's beautifully written, a memoir about a woman who struggles with both Anorexia and Bulimia. This is something different for me, taken from Alex's point of view after she returns from the WPP. You know, when she did those **_**six**_** episodes? Yeah, those. Reviews are awesome! Oh, and be sure to read/review my other svu stories, 'Here we go again,' and 'Beautifully Undone.'**

**One.**

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_'It is a youthful failing to be unable to control one's impulses.'-Seneca._

Tap. Tap. One, two, three. Tap. Tap. My fingers beat against the chair in a timely rythm. I stare down at my plate in pure agony. I want nothing to do with this fat, greasy disgusting _shit_ on my plate. I suck in a sharp breath and look back up at the table of people surrounding me. Since I've returned from WPP everything has felt so foreign and surreal.

I came back to find that someone new had taken over, someone by the name of Casey Novak. Compare me and her, and she wins by a landslide. The first thing I noticed when I saw her was her beauty. The second, was the way the entire precinct drooled over her. The third? All of _my_ imperfections and what I needed to do to change.

I took note immediately, of the weight I gained when I got ready for dinner that night. It was our 'annual' dinner that everyone had set aside for me, since my return. I tried desperately not to let it bother me, the weight thing, I mean, but it did. Just like it bothered me that Casey wasn't going away. That she was better in more ways then one. So much better then I was.

Olivia voice brought me out of my presence again and I looked up at her with weary eyes.

"Y-Yeah?" I mumbled, clearing my throat. She eyed me for a moment, confused.

"You just seem a little..distant lately. Are you alright?" I suck in another breath, nodding slowly as I fight back the urge to tell her the truth. Before I can let any words slip, I stuff a forkful of pasta into my mouth and sink back into myself as I continue to listen to the mindless chatter around me.

--

When it all became more then I could handle I excused myself for a moment and slipped away from everyone. Opening the door to the woman's washroom, I let out a shaky, nervous breath and ran a hand through my long, blond tresses. I quickly began pacing back and forth as I thought about all the food I had consumed tonight. I could already see the pounds being added on. The people, judging me silently with their eyes.

Walking up to the mirror I stared at my reflection. My hands gripped the counter so hard my knuckles turned white. The thoughts swam mercilessly around in my head until they were to the point of suffocating me. I could feel my chest tightening as I struggled to get air into my lungs. Tears instantly formed in my eyes as my heart pounded heavily, echoing in my ears. I bit down hard on my lip, turning away from the sink as I pressed my back to it. I searched anxiously, greedily for an escape, anything to get this bone crushing pressure to lessen.

Without thinking, I stumbled into a nearby stall and fell to my knees. Yanking back my hair in a fit of frustration and anger, I used my other hand, my free hand, to shove two of my fingers down my throat. I gagged a bit at first until it all came back up. I watched as my dinner floated around in the toilet. I let out a relieved sigh as I let my head fall back against the wall with a thud. My eyes closed as I listened to the toilet flush.

It was then I realized the bone crushing pressure had lessened, gone away, and that I could breathe again. The rough beating of my heart slowed and I felt my head swimming happily. I heard someone call out my name a few minutes later and my eyes shot up.

"Alex?" Scrambling to my feet, I straightened out my clothes and hair, making sure I was somewhat 'appearance' worthy before I faced them all again. Olivia stood in front of me, arms crossed over her chest and her head tilted.

"We were beginning to wonder where you were." She continued, a smile edging at the corners of her lips.

"I uh..." I paused, ashamed at my stuttering. I was so high in the clouds, I couldn't even form a proper sentence. I watched as Olivia's gaze on me changed from confused to concerned and she instantly took a step closer towards me.

"You uh...you alright?" She asked quietly, voice barely audible. I swallowed hard, nodding as I pressed another fake smile onto my face. Pushing past her I headed back to the sink, washing my hands until they were red. When I glanced back up at the mirror, face flushed, I noticed Olivia was gone.

When did she leave? I didn't hear a door. I blinked a few times before letting out a long breath. I was beginning to think I'd imagined that whole thing. Wiping my hands on a paper towel, I quickly discarded it and headed back out.

This was the beginning of a new me.


	2. Two

**A/N: This is basically all drabble. But thanks for reviewing! Song lyrics belong to 'City and Colour.' Mentions of Bulimia and Cutting are in this chapter and possibly ones to come. It's slow at first, basically Alex's thoughts on everything, escalating from the night she had dinner with the 'group' to now, her silent abyss and the things that brought her to it.**

**Two.**

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_'And I'm afraid, to sleep because of what haunts me. Such as living with the uncertainty, that I'll never find the words to say.'_

I hold my head in my hands, hot tears pouring down like faucets. The memories are so vivid and real I can taste them. The memories of a kid longing to grab something, _anything_ to hold onto. Those memories, are my own. I bite down so hard on my lip that I can taste the blood as I'm reeled back into a past I want to forget.

My mother and father, screaming so loud that they'd wake up the neighbors. That my father would hit me until I was bruised and bleeding, sometimes until my bones would snap. Times where my mother would drink so much I wasn't sure if she was waking up. There were times where the police were called, asking why I was so frail and skinny, why I never spoke when they asked me questions, and why I had dark, purple bags under my eyes.

All of that translated into one thing. One person. Me.

Everyone says eating disorders are based on traumatic lives, on an imbalance in the brain, but that's not always true. Sometimes, a person could have a seemingly perfect life on the outside, yet still feel imperfect and horrid on the inside. I scoff at the irony. Then there are the people, like shrinks, for instance, who believe it's a stage. A normal part of adolescence, and that everyone will soon grow out of it. That it's common for most woman, mainly young teens, to go through this.

When I was being poked and prodded at by said shrink, I told him he belong in a loony bin. That happened when I was fourteen. Yes. You heard right. This hadn't just happened on occasion. This had been a long, tedious, ongoing battle that, for awhile, disappeared. Until I came back from WPP and learned the life I once knew was shattered and gone.

I was no longer ADA Alexandra Cabot. I was Alexandra Cabot, the invisible, disgusting low-life who didn't have the ball to stand up to those rat bastards the last time they let me out and say I wasn't going back. I was the Alexandra Cabot that no one knew. I was the self destructive, angry, hurting, Alexandra Cabot. The one with too much emotional baggage to withstand any personal or life happiness.

Basically, I was a shell. A shell of the person I once was. I may look the same on the outside, but on the inside I had retreated to my old, violent ways. Ways I refused to let anyone see. It was comforting, in one stance, but terrifying in another. I was so haunted by my thoughts, plagued, that I couldn't get a decent night's sleep. I don't know why this all started again, actually, that's a lie. I _do_ know, but god forbid I share that with _anyone._

All in all, I wanted to die.

--

I hold in my breath as I stare aimlessly into my refrigerator. Every night's the same routine. Go to work, act slap-happy, come home, and stuff my face until I'm so full I'm unsure if I could move. Then I throw it up. I throw it up sometimes until my stomach is raw and aching, until I'm spitting out blood and I'm so fucking _happy_ I could pass out.

Until I'm _satisfied_.

Then, I walk to my long ballet mirror and examine. I examine all the 'problem areas' on my body and make note of what has to go and what could stay. I've also picked up something new as well, something I know is _incredibly_ stupid and risky, but at the same time, something that gave me so much relief I could spit.

Cutting.

The cold blade against my burning flesh felt good. It eased the stress when the self-induced vomiting couldn't. It took me to a whole new level of happy that I couldn't experience with just shedding pounds. The blood that dripped from my skin hit the floor in small droplets as a smile appeared on my face.

It was sick, I know. But that didn't mean I'd stop.

I slowly found myself drawing away from my friends. I didn't talk to Olivia and Elliot unless it was necessary, and I always pulled up a bullshit excuse when Donolley wanted to talk. I didn't need or want to hear her lectures. I just didn't want to be bothered.

I was lost within myself, and it felt good. So good, it scared me.

I always made sure to cover the parts of my body I'd cut. I didn't even refer to it as such, I called it 'art work.' I'm aware of how disturbing and 'unlike me' it was, but I didn't care. I didn't have a fucking care in the _world_ when it came to this. Beautiful patterns and designs aligned my arms and every time I traced my fingers over them, I shuddered with satisfaction.

Like I'd said, it didn't happen in one night. It was a lifetime. Starting from age nine, when I was told I needed to shed a few pounds by my mother, to now. I had a little break in between. Well, if you call sixteen years a break. I stopped, from age 16, to 32. I started again this year, at 33. The year I got out of WPP. The year everything went to shit.

But it didn't matter anymore, because that was the past and this was the future. I was going to make _sure_ I stuck to it this time. No matter _what_ happens. I wasn't going to take shit from anyone.

After all, I was a brand new Alex Cabot.


	3. Three

**A/N: I apologize for the inconsistent updates, work has currently taken over my life. Lovely. Reviews are beautiful and appreciated. Thank you. I never imagined the feedback I'd get on this story. It's amazing! :)**

**Three.**

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_'Silences have a climax, when you have got to speak.'-Elizabeth Bowen._

Silence. It's basically what I've become. A silent, mindless, zombie. I walk as if I'm on a cloud, into work. I don't acknowledge anyone unless they've acknowledged me first, and make it a point, not to be talked to or stopped. I have nothing to offer for anyone, absolutely nothing. So why would they take the time out of their day to bother me anyway?

I set my brief case on the mahogany desk in my office, door closed, and blinds drawn. It's a dark abyss. It's nice, comforting, in an odd sort of way. I sit in the swivel chair and glance down at the mounds of paperwork I have to fill out. I let out a bored breath, head snapping up the moment I hear the doorknob shake.

I hold my breath without even knowing and watch as she enters. Casey. All smiles, hair perfect, skin perfect, everything is just absolutely fucking _perfect_. Well, for her, on her, around her, that is. I bite down hard on my lip, shaking myself from my daze as she continues to call out my name.

I blink a few times before a small, gangly voice manages to answer back. I sound like I'm being choked.

"Y-Yes?" I stutter, and then curse silently at myself for it. I'm such a wimp. I can't even utter a single word to her without becoming a nervous fucking wreck. The worst part is the fact I don't even know _why_ I'm nervous. She's just..Casey.

"I was wondering if you have the files for the Connor's case done yet? I need to get them down to the precinct." She adds quietly, eyes boring into mine. I can tell from the way she has her eyebrows cocked, that she's trying to read me. That she's, if I must utter it, _concerned_.

I quietly spit out a harsh laugh at the thought. Casey Novak, concerned about little ol' me? Yeah right.

No one's concerned. Not Casey. Not Olivia. Nobody. And hell, maybe it's better that way. Maybe not...

--

I offered to take them for her. The files, I mean. Why on earth I offered is beyond me, but as I walk into the chilled precinct I'm instantly finding my stomach fill with regret. I want to turn the moment I step in, but I can't. I pause for a moment, looking around at everyone bustling about. I look over when I hear Cragen call my name, and take the time to realize he's motioning to my hands.

I glance down, and my cheeks fill with a red tint of embarrassment. The files. I smile sheepishly and walk toward him, listening to my heels click against the floor. I watch out of the corner of my eye as everyone's heads turn my way. The cap motions for me to come in his office, and wordlessly, I do so. As I've said before, I'm silent.

I suck in a hard breath as he closes the door behind him and motions for me to take a seat on one of the chairs placed in front of his desk. He sits behind said desk and sets the files aside. Looking me right in the eye, he speaks. His voice, like Casey's, is laced with concern.

"Alex, I don't mean to...butt in, but I feel I must ask. Is everything alright?"

I'm taken back by his question at first, but slowly find myself nodding my head. I don't speak, because I know i'll be stuttering again. I _always_ stutter now. He sighs, obviously unhappy with my answer, and speaks up again. His tone never changes.

"Are you absolutely _sure_ of this?" I scoff at the second question. It's as if I'm fucking retarded or something.

Of _course_ I'm sure! I hiss mentally. Hell, I want to scream it, but I can't get the words to slip past my tongue. Damn.

"Because," He continues. "If not, you know you can always come talk to me."

I swallow hard, and grip my sweating hands together to try and relieve some of the anger I'm feeling. I nod, again and then proceed to leave. Pushing the chair back, I turn away from him and yank open the door, the cool breeze feeling good against my burning hot skin. I step out and immediately lock eyes with both Olivia and Elliot, who are silently gesturing to one another to come talk to me.

I want to leave before they can, but my feet won't move. I curse angrily at the demons in my head as they approach me. Fuck my life. "What was that about?" Elliot quipped, curiously. I glance back at Cragen, who's standing in the doorway of his office, arm's crossed and that damn look of concern never leaving his face. Whipping my head back around to Elliot, I shrug, attempt to move past him, but this time is stopped by a head of brown hair.

Olivia.

I look up through my side swept bangs to find she's biting her lip. She wants to say something, but won't allow herself. That's always what she does when she refuses to say what she means. She bites her lip. I suck in another hard breath and cross my arms protectively across my chest. I feel inferior to her, whether I want too or not.

"Speak." I hiss. My voice is so cold and sharp that it surprises even me. And I sure as hell know both Olivia and Elliot are shocked as well because their eyes are wide. As she makes an effort to compose herself, I tap my foot unknowingly.

Everyone knows, those two included, that I was never a patient person. I'm still not.

"I.." She stops, licking her lips as she brushes her hair from her eyes. "I just...I wanted to know if you were...you know, alright? I mean ever since you've come back from WPP-" I cut her off. I'm no longer silent. The words suddenly fall from my mouth in an angry tone.

"Different. I know, I know. It's the same shit you told me the other night, and like _I_ told _you_, I'm fine! So everyone just leave me the hell alone and stop asking all these god damn questions!" I let out an aggravated huff and turn on my heel. Before anyone can say anything more, or stop me again, I'm out of there. Hell, I'm practically sprinting. All I know is that the bone crushing pressure is coming back and I can slowly feel the oxygen draining from me.

I bite my lip in anxiety and fear as I look around frantically, for a taxi. Then again, it's New York and by the time I got a taxi I could've walked to my fucking office. Letting out a frustrated cry, I yank open a cab door, one that's just pulled up to the curb, and jump in. I tell him where to go in one long breath and sit back against the seat.

My head is spinning as I wait the long drive to the office. Actually, it's not that long. It really just _feels_ long. I try to swallow again, but choke. I end up having a coughing fit until he pulls up to the office. I pay him with sweaty, shaking hand and jump out. I sprint to my office, slam and lock the door, and then search for something, anything to relieve me from this hell.

I find a container of potato salad in the mini fridge they've stashed in here, and nearly choke on it as I shovel it down. I don't even bother to savor the taste. Throwing the container aside, I rush for the bathroom, not bothering to be cautious or check who's out or who isn't. I dash into the nearest stall, lock it, and then drop to my knees. I nearly rip my sleeve as I pull it up and shove my fingers down my throat.

I don't gag, I've gotten past that. I let out a soft sigh of relieve as it all comes back up in front of my eyes. Wiping my mouth and hand, I throw the toilet paper in the toilet and flush it. I wait a moment for the oxygen to come back into my lungs and then stumble out of the stall, gripping the wall to help keep me up. I feel a hand on my arm and straighten my body quickly, finding Casey standing before me, helping me with my balance. I yank my arm back forcefully, and walk to the sink. She stares back at me, then at the stall, then back at me, and her eyes are laced with pure fear.

"Are you alright?" She croaks out. I nod. She spits out a harsh laugh. "You sure don't sound okay. You dashed out of your office so fast I'd assumed it was on fire, and I found you in here nearly throwing up your entire stomach!" She exclaims.

I roll my eyes at her exaggeration.

"I'm _fine_." I press. "Jus-Just...so-something I ate this morning, I guess." She sighs, unhappy with my answer but nods despite it.

"Fine..but why don't you go home and relax. I can take over from here."

Her words set me off and I suddenly spin around, eyes narrowed and voice spitting like venom.

"Right." I hiss. "Because you're used to that, am I right? You're used to 'taking over.' Well why don't you just take over permnaently and I'll leave you the _fuck_ alone!" I shout. "Take over my job, my life, my friends, everything!" She stares back, blinking a few moments as she allows the words to sink in. Her face has the word 'shock' written all over it. I feel tears brimming in my eyes as I throw the paper towel in the dispenser and push past her.

My shoulder brushes hers roughly and I wince from it, but continue to walk. I don't look back, I just keep walking.

I walk, because that's all I know what the fuck to do anymore.

--

I think I sat in my office for a good ten minutes, sobbing softly before I packed up my things and left. Casey never stopped by and I was grateful for it. I made it out without a word from anyone and was at my apartment within a mere five minutes.

Dropping my briefcase onto the floor, I lean against my door as fresh sobs escape my body. I allow myself to sink into a seated position, back pressed firmly against the door, knees drawn to chest. Dropping my head into my knees, I wrap my arms around them.

Fuck. I hiss mentally. I'm such a _pansy_!


	4. Four

**A/N: Unfortunately for me, updates will be more scattered due to the inconsistent work/school schedule. I start back at school the 19th, fml. Anyway, I appreciate everyone being so patient and I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Review please. :)**

**Four.**

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_'Pretty soon you're gonna' waste away.'-Unknown._

From what I've heard, It's normal for those with 'self image' problems to have recollections of abuse in a past life. However, I could name on one hand the times it happened by my mother, and with my father? Well I'd need an entire book to tell you that. My mother wasn't as bad as my father got. Most of the time she'd just sit in a corner of the room and drink until she passed out. I remember having to constantly check on her to make sure she was still breathing, and then having to clean up the vomit and bottles before my father got home-not that it mattered. He did the same thing.

Then it happened all over again with my father. But my father had a temper, a bad one at that. Instead of taking it out at a kick boxing class he took, he let his anger explode on me. He said it was just to 'teach me a lesson,' but I knew he was talking out his ass. I used to blame myself, saying If I did this and did that it wouldn't happen. But by the time I reached 15 I'd given up blaming myself. Instead I just allowed myself to wallow in the pity and become a piece of torn furniture. I couldn't allow anyone in my life for fear of what they might see or deal with while they were in it. I was afraid of getting close to anyone because I didn't want them to get hurt like I was.

When I'd finally been able to get out of the house and away from them, it wasn't until I was in special victims did I really _listen_ to what had happened to victims and in some way, get a bit of insight on what happened to _me_. Abuse. Rape. Any form of torture my father could throw at me, he did. Then he acted smug about it, as if it wasn't a big deal.

I'd have nightmares for weeks, about the victims, about my horrible past life with my _parents_. The word still makes me cringe when I hear it because _those_ weren't parents. Parents were supposed to love and nurture you and mine did not.

Now they're dead, and as much as I should care, I don't. I guess you can say it's just how I was 'brought up.'

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I was told I was heartless the day of the funeral. I didn't arrange it, my aunt Claire did. One whom I hadn't spoken to in ages. She was old fasioned, spare the rod, beat the child. Something along those lines, I didn't and do _not_ remember the saying she used every other second, and I _refuse _too.

The reason I was referred to as heartless was because I didn't shed a tear. I didn't cry, talk to anyone, and I made it pretty damn clear I was beyond _pissed_ at my parents. I didn't care about anyone or anything, just getting out. They wanted me to stay, my 'family' I mean, so that I could have some form of closure but I refused too. I told myself I didn't need it and then went on my way.

I didn't and haven't returned since. What's to return to anyway? People who don't give a fuck about me and vice versa? No thanks, I'll pass. I'm pretty okay here in the big apple, well, as okay as okay can get, but other then that I'm not complaining.

--

I count the scars on my wrist the next morning at work because I have nothing better to do. Instead of just throwing up once a day, it's three times. Morning, noon, and night, hell-sometimes even four or five. I'll eat when I'm stressed, angry, or just fucking bored, like now, and then I'll head into a bathroom and throw it up. The light headed, happy feeling was starting to go away though and soon was replaced with a shit load of fears. More then what I needed.

The throwing up still helped though. It was like a familiar taste of poison that I couldn't get enough of. It was my addiction, my entire world and slowly began to consume me more then I needed it too. I couldn't and would not stop. I didn't want too. I liked it. I felt better after. I felt skinny, and like I was good enough for everyone. It was better then any man or woman I could be fucking right about now.

In other words, it was my _everything_, despite me saying it's not good for me.

Like I said, it was my poison and I couldn't get away from it.


	5. Five

**A/N: I just feel the need to say, because I'm plagued with a sudden happiness that could only be described as borderline insanity, that you all are my oxygen. You are what keep me going and I can never thank you enough. If I were able to hug you all, I would- but unfortunately for me, computer screens don't let you teleport your body.**

**ShaNini86-I'm glad you enjoy my writing. I don't do many personal shout outs, but I wanted to write one to you for some reason. You have been so kind to me, telling me in each review how much you like my writing when I always manage to think it's not good enough. So thank you, thank you for giving me the extra push I needed to keep this going. For you, I owe a lot of this too because I most likely would've written a few more chapters of this and dropped it like I do with so much of my other work. But you, you gave me the strength, the will to keep this going. So as I've said time and time again, (repetitiveness is an issue of mine), thank you!**

**Five.**

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_"Never, never underestimate the power of desire. If you want to live badly enough, you can live. The great question, at least for me, was: How do I decide I want to live?"-Marya Hornbacher._

In the coming weeks I have had to fight with a question that some may find as ludicrous. I had to fight off the demons in my head as I bordered on sanity and sinking into the unknown. I lost the will to live, to do anything other then wallow in my self pity. I ached with every fiber in my being, hell even my _hair_ hurt.

I called off numerous times, more then I should, and ignore the high pile of bills on the counter. I cringe every time I hear movement outside of my apartment, or my door being knocked on, and I can't help but sink back into the past life I have tried so hard to escape from. The one that involved my parents, the people who led me to hell and back before making their own way down there.

I remember when I was around the age of five, sitting at mommy's makeup desk and giggling as I painted my face with bright colors. She caught me in the midst of putting on lip stick and ran over, cursing. She ripped me from the stool so fast she nearly pulled my arm out of the socket and then practically threw me into her bathroom. My face was red and tear stained when I stepped out, five minutes later. She said nothing, just grunted in displeasure and headed down to her bottles. Her _children_ I called them. The ones she always wanted, the ones she can never get enough of.

I slid down the wall, back pressed against it and legs strewn out in front of me. I whimpered quietly as hot tears fell down my pale, chubby, five year old cheeks. I sniffled, tucked a strand of blond hair behind my ear, and waited a moment before standing back up.

Determined, I stomp back into the bathroom, the door shutting with a click behind me. I yank the step stool out and pull my tiny body onto it as I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I frown, instantly as I lift my pink dress up and over my head. I poke at my round stomach, an unhappy sigh eliciting from my lips.

After another moment of staring, I let my dress fall back down and hop off the stool in a fit. I sigh again, the same unhappiness escaping, before I head off to my bedroom. I climb wearily into bed, not bothering to take off my pink dress, not caring if it got wrinkled, and let my eyes close as fresh tears escaped.

I snort in disgust. Even then I knew I was fucked up. I guess I didn't really have to worry about it though, not at the tender age of five. However, when I'd first entered puberty was when it really hit. The feeling of needing something, yet not knowing what, of wanting to be perfect, in control, knowing that you have something to hold onto. The feeling that overcame me and brought me to who I am today.

A lost, trepid soul, trapped inside a body I don't want with a life I don't want.

--

All of this _really_ began the moment my mother uttered those words. They burned as they ran through my 12 year old ears. I still feel myself wanting to scream in a mixture of agony and anger. It was a sunny July morning, my mother just beginning to start her first bottle of the day. Her choice of the week, Jack Daniels.

"You know," She slurred, as she struggled to hold herself up against the wall. "You've put on quite some weight. You might wanna take care of that before it gets out of control. Maybe a diet will do you some good."

I bit down so hard on my lip when she told me that, struggling to refrain what I'd _really_ wanted to say to her, that I bit right through it and caused it to bleed like a water fountain. My mother let out a string of angry curses before rushing me to the emergency room where I had 2 stitches. I sat detached, the entire time, in the cold hospital room as they put in the black stitches that now left a scar on my lip. I was so focused on my mother's words and trying not to cry that I barely noticed when they had started or when they had finished. I hadn't even taken note of the pain, but I knew I would later that night.

My father came home around the same time we did, and it wasn't long before he had me in another room, yelling and calling me a 'good for nothing whore.' It didn't help that he too, said something about my weight and how my mother was _right_.

I knew that one opinion was bad, but two? The fact they were from my parents, my _own_ flesh and blood, did not help either. I guess it was that night that really brought me to this point. The point of hatred, of anger. A point I promised I would never be at again.

I was perched on my knees, kneeled over the toilet bowl with the sink running. My fingers shoved down my throat, hair tied back, I watched as my dinner came out in front of my eyes. At first, I had trouble, gagging and what not, but the second time It was like water. Granted, I was a bit disgusted, but at the same time I felt relieved. As if a large weight had been lifted off of me. The weight _inside_ of me. As if it was slowly fading, with the vomit that had been flushed and was now going down to the sewer.

I felt, for the first time in my life, like _I_ was worth something, like I had a purpose. I felt like I had control.

--

I had no reason to live anymore. No reason to keep going. At least, not in my eyes. I was alone as alone gets, not wanting to be bothered unless it was an emergency. I lay, curled up in my bed, a mound of food to my right, my back turned away from it. I'm staring at the white wall ahead, half wanting to eat it, half wanting to throw it out. I turn to face it, and within seconds, have it shoved down my throat. In a long, white t-shirt, that should be more along the lines of a dress, and black boy short panties, I make my way through the dark into the bathroom. The only light coming in is from the lightning outside. I kneel down, rip my hair back(nearly pulling it out of my head), and shove my fingers down my throat, further and further until it all comes back up.

I smile with satisfaction, let out a relieved sigh, and let my head fall backward against the wall. With closed eyes, I drift off and for the moment, I realize one thing. I've gotten my answer. I've gotten my _reason_, my control, to keep living.


	6. Six

**A/N: ...I don't think I have something to say today, except, thank you. Keep reviewing too, because that always encourages me to keep going. And this is one I want to finish. I'm almost too fucking determined it scares me.**

**ShaNini86-I'm glad my shout out made your day! Or life, whatever one it was. Ha. Look for more soon! :) Same goes for everyone else. More shout outs will be coming, I'm just too lazy to put them all down right now. That, and I'm slightly buzzed. But, it's okay.**

**Six.**

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_"I was used to sleeping with people because I endlessly found myself in identical situations where it was easier to just fuck them than to say no."-Marya Hornbacher._

The person hovering above me is no more a stranger to me, then I am to myself. I don't remember his name, nor do I care too-I just wanted to dull the ache. This worked. The sex, I mean. As much as I didn't want to do _anything_, I did. I always did, because it was better then sinking back deep inside of myself and wallowing in the memories of my past life.

I had just left my apartment the first time in what felt like weeks, no longer wanting to sit inside the dark, dull abyss. I went somewhere familiar and close, a local coffee shop. I ordered a hot, coffee, degrading myself for the amount of calories it had in it, despite knowing I was going to throw it back up anyway, and found him. He sat in the back corner, sipping nonchalantly on his drink and staring at me. Our eyes locked like in some cheesy, cliche` romance movie, where they meet and fall in love automatically.

That's not how this was. I was walking over to him, before I knew what was happening. I couldn't register the movement or the fast pace that my legs took on. I stood, hovering over him as we stared at each other, our eyes never leaving, barely blinking. He smirked, the kind of bad boy smirk, the one that made parents want to run the boy over with their tractor trailer and then lock their baby girls in their rooms for the rest of their life.

He said nothing as he stood up. He hovered slightly over me, only a few inches taller, and we walked silently out of the shop together. Coffee's in hand, the looks and gestures saying everything that we could never say aloud.

We made it back to my apartment, where we were now, and had mindless sex. I had discarded my coffee cup the moment I stepped inside, held up a finger for him to wait a moment and then slipped away into my bathroom. I ran the sink, got to my knees and threw back everything I'd just allowed my body to take in. I smiled, a sigh of satisfaction escaping my pursed lips. Brushing my teeth rather quickly and gargling with mouth wash, I stashed it away.

My clothes were a mess, _I_ was a mess as I stumbled out of the bathroom, almost falling completely. I headed back to the kitchen where he stood awkwardly, waiting for me. I watched for a moment, going unnoticed as he looked around at everything. He seemed impressed. When his eyes landed on mine again, we moved swiftly across the room into each others embrace.

I let him take me in his arms, lips against lips, bodies against bodies as we shed clothes quickly. My head was still swimming, the buzzing making me smile, a far away, dazed look on my face. He had me up and on my bed in seconds and I kept having to ask myself how I went from being slammed against a kitchen wall to being slammed on my bed.

I didn't care though. I knew I should be focusing on him, but I wasn't. My mind was elsewhere, buzzing happily along, that goofy fucking smile never leaving. He took that as a good sign, and kept going, the heavy panting eliciting from him, alerting me that he was close. I just lay underneath him, only moving slightly when was necessary, to make sure he didn't think I was sleep.

I took the time to study the features of his face. Sweat sliding down his brow, eyes squeezed tightly shut, a look of pure pleasure on his face as a string of curses fell from his mouth. I smirked, thinking highly of myself, thinking, _damn_, I must be good, and yet I'm barely doing anything.

When he leaves, satisfied and knowing he'll never see me again, I lock my door. I pull a bag of chips out from under my bed, rip it open and shove it down my throat-barely tasting it. I suck in a sharp breath and glance at the clothes that lay scattered, haphazardly on my floor. The room was dark as dark got, now that I shut off the bedside lamp. I picked up my nearly _dead_ cell phone and glanced at the screen, a small light illuminating from that.

10 missed calls, no surprise there. 5 were from work, from Donnelley, from Casey, the other 5 from Olivia and Elliot. I listened half heartedly as they pleaded to me through the phone, trying to get me to meet up with them, to let them in my head. They were trying to get me to tell them what was wrong, what my _'problem'_ was.

I scoffed and threw the phone in anger, still munching on the bag of chips. Problem? I didn't have a fucking problem. At least, I _didn't_ until they called. I hissed lowly. I shouldn't have listened to those fucking voice mails.

--

The walls around me suck me in, pulling me deeper and I can feel that panic begin to set back into the small space in my chest. I croak out, crying slightly from the pain as I lean back over the toilet, throwing up again and again, just _wanting_, _waiting_, _pleading_ for that damn pain to go away.

When I realize it won't, I stop. I stop the vomiting, because there wasn't really much in my stomach to throw up anyway, and grab the razor off the sink. I reach up with one, shaky hand and pull it down. Gripping it tightly in my sweaty, shaking hands, I rake it violently across my arm, the pain slowly beginning to ease up.

I sigh in relief, glad that the tightening in my chest has subsided for the time being. The worried voices though, those of the few people I rarely speak to anymore, ring over in my head. It's like a fucking VCR, stop, rewind, play. Over, and over again.

I throw the blade across the room as I pull myself to my feet. The doorbell is ringing incessantly, nearly driving me mad. Unable to ignore it, I shuffle for the door, pulling my robe over my body and hugging my arms tightly to my chest.

Donnelley is on the other side and I curse softly under my breath. Her eyebrow juts upward as she eyes me up and down. I look away, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Feeling like I felt when my _father_ did that. Right before he smirked that disgusting, spiteful smirk of his and raped me ten ways from fucking Sunday.

"Alex?" Her meek voice finally manages to squeak out. I listen as she breathes out in disbelief, as if something were wrong, as if she was just seeing me for the first time. Then again, it was. At least, for the first time in awhile.

I look at her, staying silent. I have nothing to say. I'm not sure _what_ to say. When she takes this into effect, that I was going to stay silent, she continues. Her tone of voice never changes. It's still coming out in shaky, squeaks.

"Jesus christ Alex, what _happened_?" I can't help but laugh when she says it. She sounds just oh so fucking _concerned_, like she actually _means_ it. But I know. I know she doesn't, I know this is all an act, an illusion. I pinch my arm to wake up, to get out of this because it's slowly turning into a nightmare, into my fucking fears.

"You-" She pauses, stuttering out words, stumbling. I stand in front of her, swaying happily back and forth, laughing. I'm laughing wildly at her, at the world, at her pathetic attempt to talk. I can feel my mind buzzing again, my body clenching, telling me it won't last for long. I can slowly feel the anger bubble in the pit of my stomach, the clench start in my chest.

"You are so fucking frail! What have you done to yourself?" She spits out, half in anger, half in disbelief. Still. I smirk again, shrugging as I dance away from her. She stands still in my doorway, and I watch her out of the corner of my eye, door wide open, her looking at me as if I've gone mad. I laugh louder.

Haven't I?

I catch my foot on the carpet and stumble slightly. It's then that she jumps into action, racing over me so quick I barely have time to blink, grabbing my tiny frame, gripping me tightly around my waist to keep from eating the damn carpet. In a slight daze, I stand up, straighten myself out, and turn to her.

Her eyes are wide and fearful, she wants to speak, I _know_ she does, but she says nothing. I thank her weakly, for catching me, and then tell her to leave. It's the only thing I've said in weeks. The only sound I've allowed to escape from my mouth, from my utterly mute body.

She stands there for a bit, processing everything. Me, my face, my body, my messy, tangled hair, my wrinkled clothes. There's smeared blood showing up on the sleeve but I don't notice it until she gasps loudly, a hand clasping over her mouth. I glance down at my arm and my smile fades.

Fuck.

--

I push her out of the door, yelling at her, screaming to get out and away, that it's nothing and I'm fine. I tell her, I make some useless excuse, and say I'll be into work tomorrow. I tell her she has nothing to worry about and once I'm sure she's gone, I shut the door behind me, lock all _three_ locks, and lean against it in a huff of worry, fear, and the notion that I _almost_ got caught.

Clutching my fists into balls of pure fury, I pull myself up off the floor and rush back into my kitchen, nearly emptying the fridge. Shoving everything from chips to day old pasta down my throat, I don't even wait to savor the taste before I'm back in front of the toilet, watching as it all comes back up, in reverse order.

A weak smile pushes it's way onto my face and I grab the razor off the floor, a few feet away. It's in the same spot where I left it earlier. I grip onto it again and make yet another, beautiful pattern of lines and blood across my body. Any part now, seeing as I've run out of room on my arms.

I let the razor drop to the floor when I've finished with it and inch my body toward the door. On weak arms I push myself back up and slug towards my bed. Crawling inside, I pull the sheets tightly over me, engulfing me in the thick black sheets before my eyes close completely.

I don't intend on keeping my promise. I don't intend on going to work like I said I would, or opening the door for anyone else, no matter who or what they come here for. No one. Nothing. Just like it should be, Just like _I_ should be.

Alone.


	7. Seven

**A/N: Because we all know I'm terrible with consistent updates, and besides I warned you. I'm sorry it is taking so long, I just started school today(senior) and I've been busy with that. But seeing as I get out at noon every day and my class at the college doesn't start until Sept. 1st, I should be alright with updates again. That is, if I don't get writer's block.**

**Seven.**

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_'What I was really hanging around for, I was trying to feel some kind of a good-bye. I mean I've left schools and places I didn't even know I was leaving them. I hate that. I don't care if it's a sad good-by or a bad good-by, but when I leave a place I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse. - J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye._

I've wavered between Anorexia and bulimia for so long, but when it came down to it I always chose bulimia. Why though? Simply because of the fact that it was a slower death. Anorexia was quick, it was noticeable, at least more noticeable then bulimics. It brought the attention, the gut wrenching questions that no one had wanted to answer, forward, and in turn, killed you. Then again, bulimia, as I've stated before, brought death as well. However, it was slower, more tedious. It allowed me to draw things out, to draw out the big conclusion. Most of all, it allowed me to _feel_, and feeling was the thing I've missed most in all of this.

--

I'm sitting in my office the next morning. Of course, I've shown up late, and of course I have millions of things I need to do but that doesn't mean I plan to _do_ said things. I hear a knock on the door and my body automatically gets tense, my hands clench together as the knocking gets louder, more fucking obnoxious.

I suck in a sharp breath, and with whatever voice I can muster, I manage to squeak something out.

"C-Come in."

I sigh, miserably before the door opens. That was _not_ the answer I wanted to fucking elicit. I _wanted_ to tell whoever was on the other side of the door to fuck off, but oh wait-it's Olivia. Damn.

--

"Hi." She croaks out, voice hoarse and quiet. I make a small attempt to smile and only grimace. She continues, noting said, grimace. I am thankful for the fact she doesn't bring it up though, that she looks past it. "How are you?"

I shrug.

"I've been wondering when you were coming back, you know..." Her voice sounds sad, as I note it, as it trails off. I swallow hard. From the look on her face I can tell she's been under a lot lately, and the fact I haven't been here when she went through it all, makes me feel so guilty I want to scream.

I clench my fists harder, under the mahogany desk I sit behind, and then look up at her pained eyes once more. "You're quiet...you sure everything's okay?" She adds. I swallow hard, pushing back the large lump in my throat as I struggle to get my raging emotions under control.

Finally, when I feel I'm able to without exploding, I nod my head. I open my mouth, wanting to say something, I can feel the words bubbling in the pit of my stomach and just as they're about to fall from my pursed, thin lips, the door opens again.

This time it's Donnelley. I stare at her as she opens her mouth, voice harsh and sharp, as always.

"I need to see you in my office. Now." She hisses. I bite down hard on my tongue to whip out something sharp and angry at her before she acknowledges Olivia for a moment with the nod of her head and disappears back out the way she came. Olivia looks back at me, eyes wide, confused, and with a hint of worry in them.

I am _so_ god damn screwed.

--

I waited another few minutes before I stepped into Donnelley's office, hands shaking and stomach turning involuntarily. I bite down hard on my lip, forcing, and I mean _really_ forcing a smile onto my face, before I shut the door behind me and look her way.

She's sitting at her desk, like I'd been earlier, hands perched on her crossed legs, eyes no longer angry, but worried. The same look Olivia had in them awhile ago. I suck in another quiet, but sharp breath as I take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk.

Without warning, she starts, startling me a bit.

"Would you like to tell me what that was the other night?" She asked. I shook my head, pretending not to know what she was talking about because it was sure as hell easier then telling her the truth. Besides, how could I tell her the truth, the _whole_ truth when I couldn't, _wouldn't_ admit it to myself?

"Alex.." She begins, trailing off the same way Olivia did. I look away immediately, staring out the window at the blue birds perched on the tree. The mother was feeding the baby bird a worm, in the small nest they'd built up there. I think about how peaceful that would be, sitting at home, sheltered and away from everyone else and everything else in the world. No cares, no nothing. Just silence.

I turn my head back to her when she calls my name again, asking if I'd been paying attention. I snort quietly.

_No_, I hiss mentally. I haven't been paying attention one bit.

She lets out an aggravated sigh and with a wave of her hand, dismisses me like I'm a maid or something. I scoff in disgust at her, in anger, in just plain _hate_, and then stomp out. My mind is elsewhere, still at the birds perched in their nest. I bump into Casey but brush it off, pushing past her and heading out the doors into the busy streets of New York.

I hadn't thought the meeting with Donnelley would go so easy, yet it has. It has and I can't help but be incredibly surprised. I thought I'd have to scream, yell, threaten her not to tell but it was of no such thing. I lick my lips, eyes exhausted, body practically falling apart from the lack of energy I had as I climbed into the cab.

Handing the driver a 40, he shoots off into the streets. I stare out the windows, watching everything blur together, trees, trucks, other cars, other people. Other _beautiful_ people. I start shaking again, unbeknownst to me as I climb out of the car and shakily pull my weak body up the stairs to my apartment.

When I get inside, I drop my purse, kick my shoes to the side and collapse to the floor in a blur of black nothingness. When my eyes finally closed, I realize the screaming thoughts have disappeared, leaving me in the silence that I wished I could be in.

Just like the birds...


	8. Eight

**A/N: I'm being very indecisive today. I want to end this story, for the simple fact I'm stuck on words, and then I want to continue because if I end it- it'll be well, very **_**unfinished**_**. Literally. So I think I'll keep going, at least until someone finds out-until Alex learns to let people in, however long that may take, and then writer a sequel about what happens afterward. Should I? I need your support to help me with this decision! Should I write a sequel or no? Also, I'll start with the shout-out thing in the sequel, if I write it- since I'm too far in now to do them. That, and I never have enough time. "/**

**Eight.**

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_'There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.'-Maya Angelou._

I woke up hours later, in the same position, with my stomach in my throat and my head pounding so hard I thought It'd explode. Groaning quietly from the wave of pain that shot through my spine, I manage to push myself up onto my feet, and shuffle my way to my bedroom. Note to whoever, sleeping on a kitchen floor is not comfortable. Always make an attempt to get to a bed or else you'll wake up feeling like a sumo wrestler is sitting on you.

I didn't bother to grab the purse from the kitchen, it's not like I need anything out of it. My eyes drift shut again though and I'm pounded by an unexpected wave of sleep, drawing me back in close to the border. Letting my body fall back, I rest my head on the pillow and almost immediately my eyes slam shut and I'm off into that silence I'm still longing for.

--

I'm brought out of that black abyss by the beating on my door. Groaning inwardly, I push myself to my feet once more and trudge to answer it. I'm in no fucking mood to deal with anyone right now, not after this morning. Opening the door, I lean against it, still half asleep. The moment I spot Casey though, my eyes open completely, large and wide, and I feel a thrust of fear scorch through my veins.

"Casey, what are you doing here?" I ask, the first sentence I've managed to string out without stuttering.

She eyes me a moment, then pushes herself in my apartment. "We need to talk. Donnelley sent me here."

I curse under my breath, tucking a strand of blond hair behind my ear as she sets her purse on the kitchen table and then looks around at the things scattered and strewn in my apartment. She scrunches up her face, and throws a worried glance in my direction.

"She told me about the other night, when she came to visit. I know I have no right to butt in-" I cut her off immediately, my voice sharp and my eyes narrowed, like always. The anger has set back into my chest and I clutch my fists together to keep from ripping at my hair...or her.

"You're right." I hiss. "You don't." She looks at me for a minute, slightly taken back, and then speaks up again.

"I'm worried, so is she-and frankly I can see why." She adds, a slight edge to her own voice. I scoff in anger.

"Oh really? You _can_, can you?" I snap, quickly. She looks at me, eyes narrowed in rage. I'm waiting for her to go off, I _want_ to set her off. Why, I'm unsure, but I just feel the need, the _urge_ to push her buttons like she and everyone else had been doing to me!

Before she can continue, I feel the words slip past my mouth before I can stop them.

"Last time I checked, you had better, more _important_ things to worry about then _me_." I snapped, sharply. "I'm unimportant in your world, just a useless, figment of your imagination. I don't matter, so why the _fuck_ are you here questioning me? And if fucking Donnelley was so god damn worried she should talk to me herself! Not send _you_ of all people, here, to fucking try and get me to 'share' my feelings and all of that bullshit."

As I finished, I let out a satisfied breath, throwing a smirk her way before I stomped towards my bedroom.

"You know your way out." I added, before slamming the door behind me and locking it. I was _not_ going to let _her_ tell me what I needed to do. Her! Of all the god damn people in the world, _she_ comes here. I clutch my fists again tightly. I'm so disgusted, so angry, so hateful, I could scream. In fact, I do. Swallowing the lump in my throat, and no longer giving three fucks if she's out there anymore, I let out the loudest scream I ever have before in my life. It's gut wrenching and it almost hurts as I collapse to my knees, pounding the carpet, ripping it in pure hatred.

I want to fucking die.

--

I wake up the next morning with smeared makeup, and my throat feeling like someone poured kerosene down it. Pushing myself up off the semi-ruined carpet, or at least the part I had dug up the night before, I head toward my bathroom to complete my ritual. I get dressed, brush my teeth and hair, wash my face, and head out to my kitchen to shove my face. Once I've finished, I head back into the bathroom to throw it all back up, slit my body once more, and then brush my teeth again before I collapse back in my bed.

I have no energy. My throat burns and my stomach is still turning. I threw up blood for the fifth time, which I don't think is good at all. However, I don't plan on getting it checked for the mere point of not caring. I don't care about it, or what happens to me, or anyone else anymore.

I just care about this, my disease, the high I feel. Nothing else matters anymore. Nothing else is important.

Nothing but this, and I _plan_ on sticking it out. No matter where it takes me, or where it _doesn't_.


	9. Nine

**A/N: So I've decided to go on with this, with the sequel. I can't promise my updates will be constant, but they won't be forgotten either. This is going to be the last chapter, the part where **_**someone**_**, finds out about Alex, and then the sequel will be about her time in recovery, her thoughts, merely all of that. I appreciate all your kind thoughts and I hope to see more in the future. I'm glad you all liked this and I hope the next version does justice. :) Thanks again!**

**Nine.**

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**'**_Real tragedy is never resolved. It goes on hopelessly forever.' -Chinua Achebe._

The world has never been so blurry as it is now. I keep rubbing my eyes out of happen, because I feel as if they're watering. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror I scoff in disgust and turn away. I hate myself, my own body repulses me. I did happen to notice one thing though, how fucking _red_ my eyes were. The dark, purple bags under my eyes popped out, making it look like someone had painted makeup on my face.

My body shook as I weaved in and out of the rooms of my apartment. I could barely register grabbing armfuls of food and stuffing them into my mouth. I kept eating, wanting to kill away the emptiness, the rawness inside of my stomach. I watched myself in the mirror on my dresser that sat directly across from my bed. With my door shut tightly, I continue to eat, not tasting anything, feeling as if I'm watching myself from the outside.

My limbs felt light and heavy all at the same time, my head ached and my heart pounded rapidly. I ate to try and stop the pounding too, I ate to try and calm the nerves, the shaking that errupted through me, I ate because I _needed_ too. Then I did what I always did, I threw up, added another design to my body, and repeated the actions, all over again. I wanted the bad, scary feelings to go away. I wanted that high, the high I was feeling now, to stay permanently.

I felt a lump grow in my throat and without warning, without even _making_ myself, I collapsed to the carpet and threw up again, and again, until I was throwing up blood and stomach acid. Groaning miserably, I pushed myself back onto my feet and grabbed a towel, soaking it up before it could seep in and stain the carpet. When I felt my stomach turn again, I clutched tightly onto the bathroom wall, breathing heavily in through my nose and out through my mouth, head spinning, body slowly collapsing. I fell to my knees a second time, angry at the fact that _I_ wasn't making myself throw up, that it was happening on it's own accord.

When the feeling of needing to puke again passed, I let out a relieved breath. I'd rather not vomit unless I'm _making_ myself. Sniffling, I turned around and headed back into my room, finding that it began moving much faster then I'd like it too. I felt as if the walls were beginning to close in around me as I made my way carefully to my bed to lay down.

Maybe a nice nap would do me some good?

--

When I woke up, I'd felt no better then before I went to bed in the first place. The spinning sensation had yet to ease up and my stomach was turning again. My head still pounded ridiculously as I willed my weak body into a seated position. I could feel my ears begin to pop as I pushed back the sheets, god, even that felt like an effort, and a stood up. I had to grip the end table to keep from falling as my legs adjusted to the weight. I felt like I'd put on ten pounds, and as I headed to look at myself in the mirror, I felt my eyes _actually_ well up with tears. I could see the fat, the disgust piling on my body.

What the _hell_ was happening to me? After I'd lost it all, I was gaining it all back!

--

I began to eat again, just to throw it back up. I angrily slashed my body, more then once, watching as the blood seeped into the cracks of the tiled floor in my bathroom. I felt hot tears slide down my face, my eyes still blurry, my thoughts raging a war in my head. I felt my breath hitch in my throat as I wiped away the blood, stumbling a bit as I pulled myself back onto my face. The world began to spin worse then before, everything from colors to furniture blurring together in a erratic mix. My heart wouldn't stop pounding, it wouldn't settle down as I listened to it in my ears, wondering how much longer it'd be till it jumped out of my chest.

As I proceeded to walk out of the bathroom again, for what felt like the umpteenth time today, I could practically _see_ my legs turning to jello, my entire body crumbling as my eyes rolled into the back of my head and my limp body collapsed to the floor. I could hear two faint voices though, before my world went entirely black, yelling my name.

I didn't need to see them to know who it was. Elliot and Olivia were just the people to make unexpected visits to my house, and _now_ was when they chose too? Fuck.

_Fin._


End file.
